ASiP: Fortune Cookie-Style!
by AnotherFanFic
Summary: Intro chapter says it all. Various scenarios, mostly Johnlock. Some laugh-out-loud, some feels, some cover-your-eyes-and/or-ears. Once you get the hang of it, the longer this thing goes on, the headlines for each chapter will give you serious naughty giggles all by themselves. **Please R&R!**
1. By way of Introduction

**A/N:**

_**I enjoy reading all of your stories so much, that when this idea first came to me, I nearly joined one of those forums out there - for the sole purpose of listing this as a prompt and seeing what hilarious and/or naughty tales it could inspire.**_

**_But then, as I began brainstorming on ways to execute the challenge, I had so much fun with the format that I decided to keep it all to myself. For now. ;)_**

** We have a fun custom here in the US of A, which involves reading our tiny paper fortunes aloud (to an audience, whenever possible), and **** then adding the words "in bed" to the end of them.**

**So, the Challenge (to myself) is as follows: Watch an episode of Sherlock, and record any lines which could be interpreted quite differently with the words, "in bed" added to the end. Write a separate (snarky?) shot for each one, and label each chapter accordingly. Basically, claim license to take any and all dialogue partially or completely out of context. Involve the same character(s), but allow that everything else is subject to change for the sake of dirty fun (setting, objects, etc.).**

_**Yes, I know that 'dirty' fun is subjective, so feel free to message me with objects/settings/scenarios, etc., that you'd like to see included in a new chapter. I just might take you up on it, and if I do, you will be given credit.**_

**All the lines in this story are taken from "A Study in Pink," and they are in chronological order. ****Most are from John and Sherlock, but other characters will be sprinkled in (in bed). See how that works? **waggles eyebrows** It is inevitable that these will delve into "M" territory. I'm not sorry for that, and will rate this fic appropriately.**

**I've considered applying this challenge to other shows I follow on fanfiction, but Sherlock seemed best to begin with. And I plan on despoiling every episode of this brilliant show in the very same fashion, so it's going to take a while.**

**Please R&R. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I plan to enjoy writing them. Some chapters will be very short, but reviews keep me cheerfully chugging along (in bed)!**


	2. It's an unusual situation

**It's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating...in bed**

~Lestrade

* * *

Unfortunately, their best people were shagging one another. And exercising other forms of… well, sex. Though it all went on unbeknownst to Chief Inspector Lestrade, it was no small wonder that with these brainiacs on the job (ahem), Lestrade regularly found himself in desperate need of outside assistance. Assistants?

Assistant. As in, one: one sharp-eyed, sharp-minded, sharp-tongued Consulting Detective.

God help him, indeed.

* * *

**A/N: ****"-tongued." hahaha! and, geez...**


	3. All anyone has to do is to exercise

**All anyone has to do is to exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be... in bed.**

~Lestrade

* * *

_Sherlock:_ Thanks for the patronizing refresher course, Lestrade. How very flat of you. And utterly wrong, of course.

_Sherlock **aside**/ Omniscient voice-over:_ It _could_ come in handy when I meet my new, adorable flat-mate, and have the sudden urge to claim him in a public place with lots of witnesses and zero protective barriers.

_Lestrade__:_ Sherlock -

_Sherlock:_ How safe do you want to be, Lestrade? No, don't tell me. I've already wasted precious energy on this conversation. No doubt your scathing retort will emerge mere minutes from now, and it will be as dull and dim-witted as that farcical attempt to alleviate the concern of the citizens you are sworn to protect. Boring.

(Sherlock strides away, dripping insouciance.)

(Lestrade, other Yarders present, and members of the press stare after Sherlock, open-mouthed. They are plainly miles away from following the detective's train of thought. As usual.)

* * *

**A/N: Yeah. Greg walked right into that one.**


	4. You know where to find me

**You know where to find me... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

Yeah, right. Lestrade huffed. One could never be certain of where Sherlock would turn up. Any place the man fancied that wanted a bit of terrifying, that was always a safe bet. All right, he had some pretty good ideas on where to start. At St. Barts: the morgue or the laboratory. Or at Sherlock's new flat on Baker Street.

Certainly _not_ in a scandalously compromising position involving a worn-down, right-handed cane, and a generous length of strong but pliable sapphire cashmere blend. In the common area of the aforementioned flat, in the company of a sandy-haired ex-army doctor who was now chipping in for the rent. To the simultaneous horror and delight of their startled landlady, who was only popping in with a tray of biscuits and a cup of tea.

In fact, if the Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard actually did know where to find the World's Only Consulting Detective, he would be sure to call ahead. Instead of casually ignoring the doorbell and climbing up the stairs.


	5. Nothing ever happens to me

**Nothing ever happens to me... in bed.**

~John Watson

* * *

John Watson was in a peaceful state of sleep-awareness. That is, he was aware that he was asleep. What was more significant, it was the most blissful and angst-free sleep he had had in ages. Floating comfortably in this happy realization, he found himself gently roused from slumber by a soft, warm breath across his navel. Fingers sliding down his sides, thumbs lingering expectantly over the curves of his hipbones. Deep baritone groan thrumming outward to the very edge of each appendage, deliciously desperate. Seeking permission. Hovering. So close.

John felt the answering croak escape from his lips in a voice dragged from sleep. "MmmmMM – Yes!"

He bucked involuntarily under a firm and teasing touch. Expressive hands moved down, around, from gripping his hips to lifting and cupping his arse.

The tip of his dick had an accidental meeting with a pouty lower lip, and then casually brushed across a morning-stubbled chin.

"Sweet. Jesus!" He gasped in surprise, half-hard and gripping the sheets as his eyes strove to open and investigate. He had just enough time to be cognizant of sunlight and a full head of sinfully dark and curly hair, before he felt himself completely taken in to fill a hot, wet mouth. His cock was nearly swallowed at the back of someone's throat, his body jerked in ecstasy as his eyes squeezed shut again. And while the rest of his transport struggled to achieve the wakeful state that baldly characterized his nether regions... a slick, practiced finger lightly circled around his quivering entrance and slowly pushed itself completely in.

The sheer intensity of this newfound pleasure wrenched a primitive shriek from Doctor Watson. And he promptly woke, to find himself alone and in his bed.

His hands still gripped the sheets beneath him, his breath came out in heavy pants. He blinked about in confusion. The room was dark. The flat was still... He had the sense that he'd been dreaming... and it must have been really spectacular because he was almost incredibly hot and bothered.

The sound of footfalls shifting hurried from the upstairs hallway. In an instant he was petrified - then, mortified! Then -? Mollified, by the hasty, muffled clicking of Sherlock's bedroom door.

He made a mental note to question the detective on this skulking about in the morning. What had brought him up there? And what had sent him back downstairs? His mind innocently conjured up the image of his flat-mate, and was soon sharply focused on his dark, abundant hair.

John stifled a moan as his body thrilled under a familiar shudder, and it all came rushing back to him.

What the bloody fuck was that?

His mind ran on in a million directions, but by far the most popular one was this: If he could manage to fall back to sleep _immediately_, would things pick up _exactly_ where they left off?

* * *

**A/N: **

**I can't stop laughing because I can't believe I like writing this smut! Thank you for reading it... your cheerful feedback is always appreciated. ****But first: Scroll back up and read the whole chapter out loud. Read it slowly and in your huskiest voice, like you're trying to taste the shape of each word. Go on - do it! You know you want to. Trust me, it's better this way... ;)**


	6. Who is the first?

**Who is the first... in bed?**

~John Watson

* * *

"Oi! Wait – hold on, love – if we could just - make it a bit longer-!"

Life wasn't at all like the movies. Especially when it came to achieving simultaneous orgasms.

Still, nothing could tamp the wild excitement that accompanied those occasions when two people gleefully discovered that they might actually get there at the same time.

John was close. He was _This close!_ – and then Sherlock got that look in his eyes; his lean body grew tense. John felt it, as he neared his own precipice, that Sherlock was going over without him.

"Wait, Sherlock!" the doctor puffed. "Maybe if –" he shifted his weight so he could thrust at a different angle.

Ah, well, Damn the movies. They get most of it wrong, anyhow.

"Jo-o-o-o-o-o-ohn!"

Watson sighed as his partner came all over him; but he pushed himself even harder, willing every ounce of concentration so as not to lose his own momentum.

When he had finished, he felt a hand on his arm; a warm, lazy squeeze; an offer of reassurance.

"You wanker," he teased.

His partner snorted good-naturedly, yet it still managed to sound triumphant.

Ah, the many layers of Sherlock Holmes.

The detective lay spent, naked, on three-hundred count sheets. Sweating, panting, he flopped his head to one side to engage his shorter companion. His voice cracked with a parchedness that belied his commitment to their activities, as he simply stated, "I won."

For a moment, John could only blink at him. Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock raised an eyebrow suggestively and turned his smug smile toward the ceiling.

"Wha- That wasn't a race, Sherlock!" But John couldn't hide the amusement he felt at seeing the detective looking so... satiated. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to stare at the ceiling alongside his partner. He blew out another breath, then threw down the gauntlet.

"Best two outta three?"

Sherlock grinned almost wickedly and began to rally his focus. "Fine," he agreed, still breathing quite heavily. He twisted sharply to level an additional challenge at his competitor, rapid-fire: "Loser is forced to reciprocate a spontaneous snogging to last one hour. Winner chooses the time and the place. Loser must comply with no objections and no warning."

John rolled over as the detective's eyes danced in anticipation. "Stop Stalling, idiot." An undignified squeak escaped the taller man as the doctor ran a knowing hand along his sensitive right side. "Make way for round two!"

* * *

**A/N: I like to think these two would have a lot of fun in certain situations.**

***Please let me know if you're enjoying these. Thanks to those who have told me so already, and thanks to all who are following this experiment with me!***


	7. We'll start with the riding crop

**We'll start with the riding crop... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

After three weeks with no cases, 221B Baker Street was low on funds. John knew he couldn't put off speaking to Sherlock about it, or there'd be nothing decent for them to eat by the end of the week. He dropped the spoon into the sink and called out into the flat.

"Tea, Sherlock?"

"In here," the detective answered from his bedroom. John carried two cups across the common area and turned toward the sound of Sherlock's voice. The door stood open.

Wrapped in his blue robe, Sherlock took the cup that was held out to him as he sat cross-legged on the bed and read from an ancient volume on music theory. "Do sit down, John. Hovering is not conducive to my thinking process."

Noting John's hesitation, he rolled his eyes and set his book to the side. "You want to talk to me about something. Out with it."

John nodded once, sat at the end of the bed, and took a sip from his cup. "I was thinking of volunteering to pick up some extra shifts at the surgery this week."

Sherlock leaned back on the headboard and took up his book again.

"Impossible. I need you here."

John made a noise of exasperation. "For what? You've refused every private case we've been asked to do for the past two and a half weeks."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. None of them were worthy of my time."

"The old refrain. Well, what do you suggest we do -" Sherlock leapt off of the bed and out of the room, as John continued, "- for funds... then? Sherlock?"

_Just another one-sided conversation you're having, John_. He shook his head and took a sip from his cup. Sherlock made some sort of_ eureka_ sound and strode back into the room with a cardboard box. "Here." He shoved it into John's lap as the doctor quickly lowered his cup of tea to the floor beside the bed.

"What's this, then?"

"That is a box, John."

John looked up at him, patience wearing thin. "What is in the box, Sherlock?"

"Items which have outlived their use to me, John."

"I see. And, what am I supposed to be doing with them?"

"Sell them."

"Sell them," John repeated.

"On the internet, of course."

John sat frowning at the box, while Sherlock settled himself back onto the bed, cup of tea in hand. His face was immediately obscured by the textbook as curiosity began to get the better of his flat-mate. "What could you possibly have in here worth selling?"

Even as he sniffed at one edge of the cardboard, John wondered if he ought to don some sort of personal protective equipment before coming into contact with its contents. Nothing smelled odd, so he decided to chance rifling through the box with his bare hands. He gingerly lifted the top flaps and peered inside warily.

"Sherlock, I don't recognize half of what's in here. Is anything actually going to bring in a decent amount of money?"

He paused when he lifted out a strange-looking black object. Something about it did look rather... expensive.

"Is this what I think it is?"

The detective gave no indication that he was paying attention.

"Sherlock?"

Annoyed at being interrupted yet again, Sherlock dropped the volume into his lap quite theatrically. Glancing at the tool in John's hand, he spit out:

"Horse whip."

John set it onto the duvet and stared at Sherlock. "Come again?"

"Horse whip." he enunciated slowly. "That's the popper," he nodded toward the leather bit at the end. "And the wrist loop. Two-foot fiberglass shaft, reinforced grip, molded handle."

John shrugged. In some cases he felt it was better not to inquire further. "Well, that's fine, but what do you expect it will draw?" He held it up to the sunlight to examine it further.

"No way to find out until we list it. Should help to note that it belonged to The Duchess of York before the turn of the millennium."

John sputtered and dropped it back onto the bed.

"Sherlock, are you making this up for any reason?"

"Certainly not. Check the engraving."

John turned it over and saw something suspiciously affirmative on the handle.

Sherlock reached for his laptop on the bedside table, and handed it to John. "Pull up UK Auctionlists. We'll start with the riding crop!"

* * *

**A/N: **giggles: "the tool in John's hand"** **

**Thought that was going to be totally different, didn't you? S&M is really not my forte, and anyway that would have been too obvious. ;)**

**Please let me know if you like it, and/or if there is any word/scenario you'd like me to throw into a future installment.**


	8. I need to know if bruises form

**I need to know if bruises form in the next twenty minutes.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

It was afternoon, a stormy Saturday with nothing on at the Yard. They had just given up on having a walk to the grocer's because a heavy rain had started.

John listened to the drops splattering against the window, and turned his attention to Sherlock's right nipple. He reached into a bowl on the bedside table and pulled out a large ice cube. Tracing his partner's aereola with the frozen water, he blew across the trail of wet and watched as rising gooseflesh caused the fine dark hairs to stand on end. Sherlock shuddered, arching his back, and John swiped his warm tongue across the same nipple, suckling hard to tease the rosy bud to full erectness.

This elicited a sharp moan of approbation from the detective, who lie straddled on his bed. John finished by raking his teeth ever so lightly across the sensitive area, leaving it achingly exposed while he moved on to treat Sherlock's left nipple in a similar fashion. The detective was now writhing beneath him, gyrating his slim hips, thrusting them upward towards the swell of John's arse. When his cock made contact with that increasingly familiar cleft, the nerve endings there shot electricity throughout his whole being, and he almost came right there, at the very thought of being inside John Watson again.

John watched, heavy-lidded, as Sherlock came undone beneath his ministrations. He could not help but groan at the feeling of that strong body between his thighs, at the sounds that were coming from the arrogant sod as he stripped him of his inhibitions.

Rising slowly, he leaned over to reach for another ice cube, and missed his mark. His hand landed on the side of the bowl and sent it flying. The jolt was a bit like missing a stair going down, and this sudden movement combined with the clatter of ice cubes pelting the walls startled poor Sherlock as well.

All of a sudden, they were scrambling for balance; and before either of them could register what was going on, John had fallen off of the bed and onto the hardwood floor.

For a moment, both were frozen in place; and then John winced and clapped a hand to the side of his head. Sherlock scrambled off the bed, cock-and-balls swinging as he knelt to examine the doctor's injury.

"Ow, Sherlock!" The doctor swiped at the detective's hands, which were braced on each side of his head.

Sherlock plainly ignored him, as he turned John's head to one side and then the other. "Shouldn't you be forming a knot or something?"

The look in Sherlock's eyes was so intensely focused, that John's giggles caught him unawares. An amused smile spread slowly across the detective's face, and he pulled John's head into his chest, kissing it twice very fondly and wrapping an arm around him. He began to laugh, very heartily, and this did rather interesting things to certain pieces of his anatomy which had already begun to get excited. John had quite the view from his position in Sherlock's arms, his bowed head pressed to Sherlock's sternum.

He drew back slowly and aimed a glance at the detective that stole the cackle from his throat.

"Just keep an eye on it for me, would you?" he smirked. "I'm not done with you yet…"

* * *

**A/N: Ain't we got fun? :)**

***R&R please***


	9. Potential flatmates should know

**Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other... in bed.**

~ Sherlock Holmes

* * *

"Alright. Let's have it."

"What."

"We are sharing one room on this case, so I need to know. What's your weird bedtime thing?"

"What?"

John closed the drawer on one side of the bed, stowing his military-style folded clothes.

"You know. Do you leave cracker crumbs in the sheets? Count sheep? Sleep with a pillow over your head? Listen to whale sounds?"

There was a long pause from Sherlock. Then, "No."

"Sure." John agreed. "I've never heard any whale sounds in the flat." He turned down the covers on his side of the bed as Sherlock began to do the same. "Actually, I've never seen the inside of your room..." His eyes lit up triumphantly, and he turned to face the detective. "You're probably a closet neat freak."

Sherlock, half-bent over the bed, regarded him from underneath black curly fringe.

"Of course!" John was on a deductive roll now. "The rest of the flat is in a shambles when you're on your own, but you are a meticulous dresser and I'll bet your bedroom is spotless."

Sherlock did little to hide his smirk, and John stood taller, proud of himself.

"Well, then." he pressed on. "Do you snore? Hog the covers?"

Sherlock paused in the middle of removing his robe. After a short but unquestionably internal debate, he answered. "I don't know."

John cocked his head, the way he often did when Sherlock spoke aloud. He offered up a confused, lopsided smile.

"Really? You don't?"

Sherlock turned away and busied himself with folding his robe over the back of a chair. He blew out a breath in poorly concealed frustration.

"No," he repeated firmly.

"I don't understand." John shook his head, then rolled his eyes. "Oh! Because it's useless information and you've deleted it. Right?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "No, I've just... never slept with anyone."

A pin might have been heard dropping in the rented room. John started. He hoped he hadn't done so in a terribly offensive manner. His eyes found a particularly interesting spot on the wall near the floor, and he nodded in its general direction.

"Right." _(Married to your work….) _He looked up and observed his friend. Sherlock was quiet, looking down at his feet. John swallowed deliberately, and plunged right in.

"I wear old socks," he declared. Sherlock's toe stopped tracing circles on the floor.

"I have recurring dreams about Afghanistan." Sherlock looked up. John sat down.

"Sometimes I wake up sweating or shouting." Sherlock sat down on the bed as well.

"It might wake you up." John grimaced. "Sorry. - If it does."

Sherlock was looking at him intently now. John cleared his throat. "Well. So, that's, uh… Good night, then."

Sherlock nodded. Turned off his lamp, and shimmied under the covers.

John felt a rush of fondness for the detective as he noted the adorably childish way he had climbed into bed. Turning off his own lamp, he slid under the covers and realized he now knew something about Sherlock Holmes that no one else did. He decided to file it away. That way he could call up the image any time he liked.


	10. Is that it?

**Is that it... in bed?**

~John Watson

* * *

"Is that it?"

With a rustle of heavy fabric, the tall man crossed the room in three strides. Dark Belstaff coat adding credence to his dramatic impression; he stopped, millimeters away from the former soldier, who never even flinched.

"No," he breathed in a determined, husky voice.

Long, elegant fingers slid into dirty blonde hair. Light, bright eyes searched the face opposite his own.

A deep, longing, heady kiss ensued. He would remember their desperate groaning all the way through it, his potential flat-mate grasping at his lapels and pulling him in as close as humanly possible. Caught up in so much… emotion… and lust… His heart was pounding as if it would explode, his lower body was pulsing with blood. Where was this coming from? Any why was no one stopping them?

His artist's hands were fiercely cradling that kind, trustworthy face, as the pair continued their efforts to fully inhale one another. He registered the release of his lapels, one at a time, and strong arms winding tightly around him: protectively, possessively.

This strange new acquaintance! It was exhilarating, surreal. Gasping for breath, mouths reluctantly tearing away. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, unwilling to let go.

"No," he repeated finally, in an impossibly deep timbre. Murmuring raggedly into an ear that had stormed Afghanistan: "That's not... not hardly… it."

With a full-body shudder, he broke their embrace and backed away slowly, panting, incredulous. By the time he hit the door, he'd managed to gather himself, mostly. Adopting his usual air, he spoke in a relatively normal voice.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street…"

* * *

**A/N: - Hey - It could have gone that way! Don't look at me like that... lol**

***Please review - Thank you***


	11. That's enough to be going on with

**That's enough to be going on with…in bed. Don't you think?**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

One gray and chilly evening, the city of London was getting into the spirit of late October. Dr. John Watson wandered into one of its corner shops after working at the surgery all day. He had a vague idea of what he was looking for there, but the contents of one aisle particularly exceeded his expectations.

Dr. Watson assumed that the police were having trouble solving another case, because he hadn't heard from The World's Only Consulting Detective since breakfast. When he arrived at 221B Baker Street, he closed the entry door behind him quickly, and stamped the chill out of his feet as he made his way up the stairs to his flat. On opening that door, he was quite pleased to see the detective sitting at the kitchen table in his suit and socks.

"Hello, Sherlock!" he called brightly, a grin evident in his voice.

There was no immediate reply from the man he'd addressed. His head was bent over a microscope as he focused intently on one of a hundred slides from half a dozen white boxes lined up across the table top. Dr. Watson waited a bit, then cleared his throat in remonstrance.

"Hello, John." The requisite answer was flat and emotionless. It floated up from the table without so much as a salute, an accompanying turn of one body toward another, or a lifting of strained eyes from the instrument being used.

Unperturbed, the doctor removed his coat and gloves, and hung them in their place.

"I bought you a present," he hummed temptingly.

This time he was favored with a much quicker response.

"What is it?"

"You'll have to wait to find out. And if you guess it - no, I'm not telling you. I'm not going to stay in the room because you will deduce it out of me. Now, go and finish what you're working on, then come and see me afterward."

He all but skipped out of the way, and Sherlock Holmes raised his head at last. "I might be all night with this!" he baited, petulantly.

"Jo-ohn. You know I lose track of time when I'm working!"

"Yeah." The doctor's response was muffled and annoyingly perfunctory.

Five minutes later, the door to Sherlock's bedroom swung open, with Sherlock in its wake.

"Alright. Let's see it."

John turned around to face him, light eyebrows raised innocently in question.

"Whatever it is you've bought me. You're thinking about it, loudly, and you know how much that clouds my process; so, out with it. Clearly, you want to show me something." He held his hand out impatiently, expectantly, as John picked the black plastic bag off of the nearest table and pulled it in closer to his frame, guarding it.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. I just thought we might mix it up a bit tonight, that's all. But only if you're in the mood for recreation."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped slightly. He still stood with his right hand extended, palm-up, and raised an eyebrow at John. John could see the detective debating with himself. After all, he had plainly stated his intentions for spending the night with his research or experiments or whatever those test slides were all about. Of course John knew he had provoked Sherlock's interest, but he also knew that _his_ Sherlock had been known to avoid doing something he really wanted to do, just out of stubbornness; because someone else had paved the way to working something out first, or because someone had succeeded - nearly - in manipulating him into doing it.

John smiled, an innocent, charming smile. "It's fine. We'll save it for another night." He turned to replace the sack on the low table. "Have to be ready for it, to get the full effect."

The detective dropped his hand, and was in the midst of executing a spectacularly exasperated eye roll when he registered something. John pretended not to notice when the eye roll came about without the full wave of offended-ness it had obviously intended at its start. Sherlock tried to play it off, but John saw the change in his countenance. Mid-huff, Sherlock had realized that John was standing in their bedroom in boxers and an undershirt.

Patient as ever, he grinned at his flat-mate. "It'll be fun."

Sherlock's eyes sparked, then narrowed, and he focused on the bag John was blocking with his body.

"Open it," he ordered.

The doctor cocked his head to one side, squinting at the detective with an expression that plainly showed he was debating on whether or not Sherlock deserved to have his present now, or whether this was the right time for it. But his eyes twinkled. His mouth twitched into a smiling mock-frown. He plunged his hand into the bag and commenced to rustling around in there, making as much noise as it was possible for a thin plastic sack to produce. Then, with a flourish, he withdrew a piece of dark blue felt. Which he pinched at each corner, and placed on top of his head.

Sherlock was openly curious now, if doggedly (though half-heartedly) committed to the sneer he had worn upon entering the room. His gaze followed John's fingers as they struggled to locate the mouth of the plastic sack. The next forage produced a large, black, captain's hat with gold trim.

"This one's for you, Long John Silver. Or whoever you want to be."

Sherlock stared at it for a beat.

"What exactly are we doing?"

"Taking a roll on the high seas," came the spirited reply. "If you're up for it."

Sherlock snatched the pompous chapeau from John's grip and whirled around to the glass to observe it settling properly onto his curly head. The next moment he was turning round again as he heard the familiar fluttering sound of a plastic bag, followed by two plastic-ky thumps landing on the duvet.

John tossed him one of the packets, and he caught it instantly, turning it over once and then ripping it open with his teeth. John chuckled, carefully tearing off one of the corners of his identical little package.

"Sherlock, I don't mind if you want to go back and finish your test slides. This will keep."

The detective tossed his wrapper on the ground and turned back toward the mirror as he held a black elastic band over one ear and removed his hat. Just as he was positioning the cloth piece, there was a snap, and the eye patch lay broken in his hands. His face crumpled, and John jumped in.

"I could go out right now and get you another one." Sherlock frowned. "Or, here! You can wear mine -"

The detective turned back to him, taking in the view of his doctor in a dark blue pirate hat, his expression sincere and encouraging.

"It can wait," he declared.

"What?"

"Take this off," he said, pulling John's hat from his head. "Put that on first."

He motioned with his chin at the eye patch in the doctor's right hand.

"Are you sure? I can -"

"Yes, I'm sure. Here, let me do it for you." John closed his eyes as Sherlock stretched the band across his face before taking a step back again. He blinked a few times and pulled his hat back on.

"So."

Dr. Watson sauntered in closer to The World's Only Consulting Detective.

"Want me to hoist the rigging?"

Sherlock blinked, and John continued.

"Scrub the decks?"

The detective's eyebrows rose.

"Walk the mutineer's plank?"

With each teasing suggestion, John unfastened another button on Sherlock's dress shirt. The man _was_ getting warmer, after all.

"Um," Sherlock tried, and John's hands stilled.

"Yes, love? Tell me."

"John. Would it be better for you if I were wearing one of these, too?" he slipped a finger under the elastic band near the doctor's ear, and John shrugged.

"Sherlock... this is for you. All of it. I don't care a fig about you wearing an eye patch, unless you want to wear an eye patch." He took a half step back to gauge his friend's interest.

But Sherlock stepped even closer than before. His eyes were dark with desire.

"Oh, no," he breathed, in a dangerously low voice. "As long as we've still got yours on..." With exquisite pressure, he ran a hand slowly down John's sensitive side, moaning at the shiver that ran through the man at his calculated touch.

"Sh-"

Sherlock stilled, buzzing with desire to hear John grinding out his name in lusty need.

"Shhhhh...iver... me timbers!" John erupted at once. He couldn't help himself. Impossible to have kept the thought to himself once it had come, if only because he couldn't very well laugh without giving Sherlock the wrong idea. They both snickered then, and fell laughing onto the bed as they continued to undress each other.

A few minutes later they were completely devoid of clothing, except for Sherlock's socks, and the pirate gear, of course. There was plenty of time to drag this scenario out for a while, or they could try for more than one round over the course of the evening. Sherlock decided for them. Without preamble, he reached for John's member, already stiff and engorged. The doctor hissed sharply as the detective's wicked fingers made contact.

"Wait!" he gasped, still bucking his hips forward. Sherlock paused, mid-stroke.

"Have to find the buried treasure first -"

Sherlock was by this time quite heavily aroused. He gave his head an animalistic shake to clear it just enough to process John's request.

"In the top drawer - bedside table - Sherlock!" John called out.

The pirate detective turned around quickly and wrenched open the drawer on his side of the bed. At first he found nothing out of the ordinary.

"Buried, Sherlock -"

He rifled among the notebooks and pens and held up the only object he didn't recognize as his own. John nodded mutely at the shiny brass-colored bottle in the detective's hand.

Sherlock took a closer look at what had to be lubricant, and read aloud: "Pirate's Booty."

He was so excited when he twisted off the cap, that he spilled most of the unscented oil on the sheets. He swiped at it with his hands to gather some of it up, but John had caught the bottle and was holding it up to the light. A decent, passable amount still appeared to be contained. John angled it so Sherlock could see, a question in his eyes.

"That should do it!" the genius declared, and he snatched the bottle and pounced on the doctor, who let out a chuckling, "Oof!" He kissed him fiercely, flipped him over and dribbled a bit of the oil on two of his long musician's fingers. Without further discussion, he quickly went to work stimulating multiple areas of John's willing body.

"How do you like being First Mate?" he teased. "Eh, Doctor Watson?"

As John writhed in pleasure underneath his ministrations, the detective roared in triumph.

"Call me Captain Holmes!"

* * *

**A/N: So, at first I was really torn with this one, because when I sat down to write off of this line last night I had this really great idea (I thought) : "spills the lubricant all over the place..." And then I was like, oh! "Pirate outfits - hats, eye patches, etc... and someone's eye patch elastic breaks while they're stretching it over their head..." How would I choose!? Are there any other lines from this episode that I could save either idea for, and still get the same satisfaction out of writing them into a scene? And then it hit me: how about AND instead of OR? Thank you Pumpkin Ale. I don't know why I like to see these guys in awkward situations, but it's just so funny and not really awkward for them most of the time because it's just real-life stuff… sort of. **

**Anyway, I do apologize for the week or so it's taken me to do an update. Life. Schedules. Finding time to get into sex-related-writing mode after putting in a 10-hour day five days a week, blah blah blah...**

**And yes, to answer my lovely reviewer's question, there will be MANY more of these. I already have more than thirty more lines to draw from in ASiP alone, and I'm only halfway through watching the episode for the purposes of this exercise. Of course, when I'm finished with "ASiP: Fortune-Cookie-Style," I will be on to "TBB: Fortune-Cookie Style." (See Chapter One of this fic: "By Way of Introduction," for further elaboration on this subject.) Good thing I don't plan to take my mind out of the gutter any time soon...**

**Thank you all for your continued interest, and follows, and the rest of you please let me know what you're thinking. I promise to keep most of my Author's Notes much shorter than the actual chapter content.**

**Love!**


	12. Yep He's always like that

**Yep. He's always like that … in bed.**

~Mike Stamford

* * *

But Stamford didn't know what Sherlock Holmes was really like. Oh, he'd seen glimpses. Snippets. Those pieces the detective had allowed him to see. Sherlock Holmes was brilliant, but abrasive. He was, on the whole, a total disaster in standard or forced social interactions. He had no close personal relationships and did not concern himself with adopting acceptable social behavior, except when it was key to attaining a bit of necessary information for solving a case. He was unapologetic when confronted with his blatant disregard for the feelings of others.

Every member of his Homeless Network, the handful of employees he ran into at St. Bart's, the many faces at Scotland Yard, and even Sherlock's own brother - all had been subjected to variations of a similar theme on the detective's personality: Arrogant, demanding, clinical, manipulative, strange. Because with them he was all of those things; and with them he was also painfully detached. He held himself apart, keeping his whole, true self off and away.

Perhaps because he was almost always alone or among those with whom he did always pretend, perhaps he had begun to believe that he was only those things.

But one day he met John Watson. John Watson was alone, and he recognized that Sherlock Holmes was alone as well, seemingly by choice. He was brilliant, yes; amazing, yes; but not so great an actor as he believed himself to be.

Sherlock's usually confident, cocky persona was liberally sprinkled with a kind of childish entitlement. He was always demanding in his interactions with others, but almost as soon as his association with John began, he found himself relying on and sometimes deferring to the doctor's sense of social propriety.

In view of most everyone else, the detective's words and behaviors induced cringes and wincing, and provided a healthy dose of shock value. Even among the victims of recent crimes, who unfortunately had to endure his particular brand of questioning, most received the impression that he viewed them with disdain. As with everyone else who crossed the detective's path, they were often dismissed as too tedious to dignify with a response (much less a kind or a polite one).

But when John Watson came into his life, the ex-army doctor quickly became one of very few people who got to see the detective's humor and his playful side. He got the benefit of being looked after by him. Sherlock observed his new friend with wonderment and glad approval. He was less exasperated, more patient with this man than he could ever have bothered to be with anyone else in his life.

John discovered, only hours after meeting Sherlock, after saving his reckless life, that the outwardly abrasive, "arrogant freak" could be tender, vulnerable, solicitous. As he lay on the couch in their flat with his head in the detective's lap, their fingers were entwined, each going over the details of the day in their own private thoughts.

When John turned to read Sherlock's expression, the usually sharp, guarded eyes were soft and open to him. John rose up slowly, and seeing no objection, he kissed him then, warm and slow.

In those first private moments, making love to his soon-to-be blogger, everything was new for Sherlock. And for John. Sherlock's sharp angles were tempered by his careful handling and attention to John's body. His usually cold manner was melted by John's intimate caresses. John, who radiated warmth and security, enjoyed and encouraged Sherlock's sensual side.

Sherlock was shockingly tender, funny, and sweet; not so shocking to John, who had seen enough from the time he had been thrown together with the detective to guess that that might be the case. He was clinical as well, but only in the sense that John could see him cataloguing every detail of their encounter. Every pleasant sensation, every action and reaction was being filed away.

Though engaging in sex was a new experience for Sherlock, sex with a man was new to John, and both took pains to safeguard one another from any unnecessary discomfort. Sherlock recognized that he was taking care to safeguard John's emotions, and it surprised him. Only one person, one man, had ever inspired such a desire in him.

Sherlock's speech, which could often be described as belittling, acerbic, rapid-fire, was transformed when it was directed at John as they lie together. His tone was assuring, his words were loving and languorous as they explored each other's bodies. He was pleased to discover the joys, the sensations of lovemaking with John. They had a marvelous give-and-take, a mutual respect and concern for the other's comfort and enjoyment.

So, no. The Sherlock everyone knew was not always like that. He could be caring, sweet, and wholly unselfish. But it was for John Watson, and John alone, to know what he would always be like in bed.

* * *

**A/N: So, yeah. Feels. **

***Reviews?***


	13. Mrs Hudson gives me a special deal

**Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she gives me a special deal... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

John's slow, steady typing was impeded by the cup he held in one hand. As he bent to take another sip from it, he frowned at the unnatural way the surface of his tea was undulating. His tremor was back; but it couldn't be. It was the wrong hand.

John was sitting on the couch and he discovered, with some imbecilic degree of relief, that it was actually the couch that was doing the shaking. He lifted his mug higher and held it in a different physical plane, just to be sure. Then he set it down firmly on the coffee table, where it rattled.

He stood up. The whole room was vibrating now, just slightly. A low hum seemed to be coming from the floor beneath his feet, and he realized it was actually originating from a room across the hall. Like sudden applause cued by his accurate deduction, the humming built into a loud buzzing sound, and John The Soldier strode in closer to it, mentally crossing off several possible options for the source of the vibration.

"Oi! Sherlock!" He walked in to find the detective standing over his own bed. There was a remote control in his hand, and it was attached to a cord, which was attached to the bed itself. Sherlock was slowly turning a large dial on the remote. John braced himself with a hand on the wall, which he removed when the wall hangings began rattling on their hooks.

John covered his ears and shouted over the din. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

"Research," the detective called over his shoulder, smiling in his self-satisfied way.

"For what?!"

"Cold case. Inconclusive. Need more variables." He turned the dial counterclockwise until the vibrating ceased altogether, and tucked the remote away into a little compartment on one side of the bedframe.

John gaped at him, then recovered himself. "What the hell? Where did you get that?" The buzzing was in his head now, and he stared as the detective slid a piece of wood over the spot where the remote was replaced, effectively concealing it from view.

"It's part of our rental agreement. Comes with the flat. One of the free perks I receive in deference to the service I provided Mrs. Hudson all those years ago."

For the second time in as many minutes, John realized that his mouth was hanging open. He made a firm effort to close it. "I don't remember our lease containing anything about a vibrating bed, Sherlock." He stared at him blankly, then shook his head. "I can't even begin to guess where you're going with this." Then he held up a hand. "Ok, well I can, but I know that you aren't, so I guess I really can't."

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought I'd deleted it."

"Sherlock!"

"John-"

"But do you honestly enjoy sleeping on this?"

"I'd forgotten about the extra feature. Really."

"May I?"

"What? Oh. Of course."

John sat down slowly on the bed, then bounced on it a little. Sherlock cocked his head with a smirk, gloating in his typical fashion.

John frowned, then shook his head again. One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "But this – it's really comfortable here, just lying down. I'm actually quite surprised." And he looked it. "I would have thought that comfort wasn't high on the list of design criteria for this kind of thing." He felt Sherlock's affronted, laser-like gaze burning a hole through him.

He coughed. "Not that you'd want to... erm... on a place that was... not... comfortable." He fumbled.

Silence from Sherlock. John blew out a breath that was almost a whistle, and the next second the detective flopped onto the bed next to him. He lay sprawled on the right side, while John rested comfortably on the left.

"It is very comfortable," John repeated.

Sherlock snorted.

"But Mrs. Hudson - where did she get it?"

"It belonged to the previous tenants."

John started, and Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

"She was showing me around the place, and she couldn't have known that I actually didn't have a bed. 'Oh, Sherlock. It was just so special that I couldn't get rid of it! I had it professionally cleaned, so you could use it if you wanted to.'"

John was speechless at Sherlock's spot-on impression of Mrs. Hudson, and the detective seemed lost in the memory. "There was something in her eyes when she said it."

John blinked.

"Fetishism?" he provided, amused and only partly amazed.

A pillow landed hard on the doctor's face. But Sherlock stilled, reflecting. "Yes," he smiled incredulously. "Quite."

John giggled, and then whipped his head around to stare at his flat-mate.

"O my god. What kind of people lived here before you moved in?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"Mmmm..." he rumbled, taking in his surroundings once more. "Bohemians," he drawled in disapproval. John glanced around the room for hidden clues.

"And a librarian," Sherlock added this as an afterthought. John's eyebrows rose, and Sherlock clarified. "Your room."

John opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, _How-did-you-figure-that-one-out_?, but he couldn't let the initial subject lie.

"I don't understand. Why didn't she just move this bed into her own flat?"

Sherlock sighed. "She said it's for the younger sort. Her heart couldn't take it".

John snorted. "Well, we all know that's a load of bollocks. I think she's just hoping you'll get some enjoyment out of it..."

Sherlock smirked, and John turned to look at him again. "You know she can hear it whenever it's turned on."

"Of course." Sherlock confirmed. "Her flat would pick up the vibrations."

A smile, slightly punch-drunk, spread over the detective's face. John tried to stifle a laugh.

"Right," was all he could manage, before he and Sherlock fell to giggling like silly schoolboys.

John didn't notice when Sherlock's right arm reached down to slide the wooden cover off the remote on his side of the bed. When the first jolt of energy coursed through the mattress underneath him, he jumped nearly a foot into the air.

"Oi! You bastard-"

Sherlock dissolved into a puddle of convulsive laughter, and John pounced on him as they wrestled for the remote. The dial turned back and forth a number of times during this struggle for dominance and repossession. And finally John had the object in his hands, his body pinning Sherlock to the bed, and they were laughing so hard that their faces and sides were aching, their eyes spilling over with tears.

Next door, in the landlady's flat, Mrs. Hudson was alone in her bed. When suddenly she recognized an unexpected but familiar sound, she gasped and clasped a hand to her bosom in shock. Blushing furiously, she gulped at the glass of water on a tray settled over her lap, and fanned herself with a magazine she kept close by. She carefully turned down the telly so that it was barely audible, not turned down all the way because that would surely alert the boys to her knowledge of their activities. She moved the tray aside and picked up her knitting, a habit she had long held but seldom indulged in. It was something productive to do while your mind was occupied elsewhere. And Ms. Hudson was certainly being productive, clamping a needle-wielding hand over her mouth to keep from tittering too loudly as she listened to the raucous rattling of her tenants' extracurriculars.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know what you all were thinking when you read the line introducing this chapter, but I bet you feel pretty sheepish right now, don't you? Yeah. Because, Sherlock and Mrs. H? That is just WRONG. **

**LOL. *Reviews?* :) Thank you in advance!**


	14. Well, this could be very nice

**Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed… in bed.**

~John Watson

* * *

It was during their initial walk through the flat that John found himself temporarily transported into the future. He was turning on a spot in the main living area, and when he completed the revolution, the space seemed different somehow.

_The furniture was positioned conversationally, the two chairs placed side by side but still turned toward each other. A single kilim throw was draped over the inner arms of both chairs, as if it were meant to be shared between them._

_A fire had been roused, and burned brightly in the low-lit room. The heavy curtains were drawn against a chilly London night, drowning out the sounds of the street below._

_Sherlock was standing in a cerulean silk robe just a few feet away. His hair looked wonderfully tousled, his posture was worry-free and relaxed. He extended an arm to John, who found himself reaching for a wineglass being offered. Inside was a dark, rich merlot, which coordinated beautifully with the plush red robe he was rather sumptuously wrapped in._

_Sherlock stepped closer, moving into John's personal space as if he had a right to be there, as if it were normal for them to breathe the same air. He was glowing, positively beaming at John, and he clinked their glasses together in a silent toast. John took a sip of the wine and hummed appreciatively, but he was soon cut off by a pair of warm, luscious lips covering his own. If John **squawked** in surprise, Sherlock showed no signs of noticing. His delight in the kiss was so pure and so obvious that it brought to John a mental image of Sherlock as an overgrown child, bouncing up and down and squealing gleefully, clapping his hands, his body unable to contain its joyful excitement. It was fortunate that John found this brand of enthusiasm to be highly contagious, for he was soon returning Sherlock's kisses with an equal measure of alacrity._

_When they broke for air, John allowed Sherlock to lead them to the fireplace. The Union Jack pillow was plumped up on the hearthrug, and another pillow, a roundish one, was lying next to it. Sherlock took John's glass and placed it on the mantle near his own. John looked down and saw his fist was thoroughly tangled in Sherlock's blue robe, unwilling to relinquish the mass of sensual fabric and the person it was clinging to. Sherlock followed John's gaze, and then their eyes snapped up together._

_John gathered more silk into his rogue right hand, and with his left he reached up to draw that gorgeous face back down toward his own._

_Which one of them forgot to lock the door? John would never know. But it opened all the same, and standing on the other side was -_

Nobody. John looked around him. The flat was back to normal, or whatever that was. No fire crackled, no dark merlot beckoned from the mantle piece. Curtains were open, windows raised slightly to let in fresh air and the sounds of London all around. He looked down. Yes, he was definitely wearing the same clothes he came here in. Same messy flat; but Sherlock was saying something about straightening up a bit.

John shook his head to clear the barrage of images and sensations it was trying to relive. Something must have shown through, though, because Sherlock was looking at him with an odd expression on his face.

John smiled amiably at him, and made a mental note to get them in the habit of locking the door. Just because, he told himself. Just because.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know why I love the idea of Lestrade/Mrs. Hudson/Mycroft walking in on them. Hahahahaha!**

***Please let me know what you all are thinking. I'm getting lots of reads but not a lot of reviews. Just checking the temperature out there. Any feedback is appreciated. :)**

**Thank you!**


	15. Well obviously I can straighten up

**Well, obviously I can… straighten up a bit... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

J: (_follows Sherlock's gaze down to the detective's crotchal area_). Hmm.

S: I mean...

J: Shh! How. Sherlock, how are you going to do that?

S: (_flushes_) Just - give me a minute.

J: It's anatomically impossible. It's just silly. Who ever heard of - ? Besides, no one is perfect in every particular.

S: (_exasperated sigh)_

J: In fact... _(flips one side of Sherlock's collar and starts unbuttoning his shirt_)

S: What are you doing?

J: (_pulls Sherlock's t-shirt off-kilter and puts one button back into the wrong hole_) Mussing.

S: What.

J: I'm mussing you.

S: (_hands batting away furiously at John's attempts to ruffle his hair_) Why?!

J: Because you look right sexy when you're all… disheveled.

S: (_blinks_) Oh.

J: Yeah.

S: Well, then… uhm. Carry on.

J: Right. (_walks a complete circle around Sherlock_) That is … Very nice, that is.

S: But – what about- ?

J: Don't worry about that. We'll make that work. (_looks down at Sherlock's crotch again_) Yeah. We can totally work with that. I've got all sorts of plans for you now.

* * *

**A/N: This one kind of wrote itself. Ahahahaha! SO mean to them sometimes.**

***Please review* :)**


	16. I looked you up on the internet

**I looked you up on the internet last night... in bed.**

~John Watson

* * *

_(Search for: "Sherlock Holmes")_

The initial web results contained variations of the same photo from different news sources: Sherlock standing or crouching at a crime scene, always wearing a long dark coat, collar turned up to highlight his prominent cheekbones.

A bit farther down the page was a link to a self-titled website, which turned out to contain no portraits but included a wide variety of odd topics. The most recent update: a list of scientific and commonplace names of all known tobacco varieties, with honest-to-god pronunciations attached to each one, performed by Sherlock himself.

Who was this man?

John perused the tobacco list, clicking on one or two of the highlighted terms, and was surprised at the high level of audio quality the website produced. Clearly, a lot of time and money had been spent elaborating on this seemingly dry topic. He shook his head in bemused amazement and chuckled at the absurdity of it all. But when he heard that deep baritone voice pronouncing the word "_Cavendish,_" it struck his senses like a filthy invitation. His mouth went completely dry. If he were being honest with himself - and he wasn't ready to be, just yet - he would acknowledge that another part of his body had been affected as well. And so he deliberately distracted himself by returning to the site's main directory and scrolling up and down a few times as if he'd found something interesting there.

Rather too quickly to succeed in faking himself out, he returned to the tobacco listings section, keen on experiencing the same thrilling involuntary responses when the next few terms were read aloud in that sinfully rich, dark voice:

"_Fire-cured." (yep. Zing!)_

_"Dokha!" _John gasped.

_"A-ro-ma-tic_," He moaned. A shivery, shuddery sound.

and "_Criollo_." Along with dry mouth and cock twitch, John felt hot, heady. And jolted.

Without really pausing to consider his actions, he ran down the list of terms greedily, experimenting with his body's physical reactions to each one until he found the words and phrases that 'spoke' to him the most. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had practiced a certain order to playing them. A rhythm. Clicking on the same steamy sound bytes over and over again, he composed an erotic symphony with a single instrument, each term a variation in pitch and degree of throatiness.

John had been absently palming his erection through his trousers, when he finally had to acknowledge that he was getting seriously wound up by the voice of a mysterious man he'd only just met.

Soon he had three internet panes lined up side by side: two photos of Sherlock Holmes in opposing profiles flanked the section he was perusing on the detective's website. John's eyes focused on the image of the man standing tall, sharp eyes directed intensely at something off-camera. He stared at the photo until he could see it in relief when he closed his eyes. _Yes!_ He could alternate this one with the other image, the one that showed the detective from his left side, crouching over an evidence tag, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Unable to stave off his excitement, he hastily undid the zip on his trousers and yanked his pants down below his knees. With one hand on his mouse pad, and one hand on his dick, he began working himself into a frenzy. Stroking and pulling to the tune of different phrases articulated by the powerful aphrodisiac that was the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

His dick literally jumped in his fist when the phrase "_Wild tobacco_" was enunciated. _"Wi-ld_," as if the word contained two separate, vigorous syllables.

That voice! Unexpected fervor in the midst of an authoritative, sometimes documentary delivery style.

It was vivid in its rendition of "_Brightleaf_." John listened as he focused on the right side of Sherlock's face.

"_Glauca!_" was sharp, almost barking at him. The left-sided, brow-furrowed picture was for this one.

Something definitely dangerous lurked amid the chords of "_Attentuata;_" and something equally soft, and oh, so sensual echoed in the way he said "_Tabacum_."

John was fully enthralled, and wanking wildly now, hardly needing to look at the photos but glancing at them every so often to refresh his memory, to sharpen the image. He had a rhythm now. Oh, yes. A good one. A heady one.

_Oh, yes. _

_Oh-! __Yes! _

_O-HO-HO YE-HE-HESSS!_

"_Turkish..._" the baritone chords purred salaciously.

"_Argentina_," John registered dimly, was practically a growl.

"_Wi-ld tobacco._" That would do it.

_"Perique!" _

_"Perique!" _

_"Perique!" _He was spilling into his hand.

* * *

**A/N: I can only hope that each of you got a similar vicarious thrill from observing John processing Sherlock pronouncing those words. If you didn't: go back and read it again. LOL.**** Obviously, I'm nothing if not... multifaceted. **

**I hope you're all enjoying these little snippets. Thank you to those who have already said as much.**

**Love! :)**


	17. Anything interesting?

**Anything interesting... in bed?**

~ Sherlock Holmes

* * *

The case they'd just wrapped was a ten. Naturally a ranking that high had not fallen into their laps at the invitation of Scotland Yard. It had started as a query from a private citizen, but in the last nine hours they'd had to get Lestrade involved.

Four days prior, a young man had turned up at 221B Baker Street with a complaint about a petty theft. A wristwatch had been stolen. "I wear it every day, so I don't actually know when I lost it. I'm wearing it now, but I'm not, really." Sherlock had stared at him, revealing nothing in his expression. Evidently the young man had practiced this recital.

"This looks like my watch and it feels like my watch, and look - " he'd removed it and held it out to the detective. "It's even scuffed in the same places. But, it isn't my watch, Mr. Holmes. Mine is inscribed on the inside back cover."

Sherlock had gently pried open the back piece. "This watch is clearly devoid of inscription," he'd drawled.

While John was intrigued by the young man's claim, he'd been truly surprised when Sherlock took on the case. Especially since the detective hadn't jumped from his chair, thrown on his Belstaff, and dragged John from the flat in search of a cab.

On that first day, John had gone in to surgery without any of the usual outright petulance or clever antics from his flat-mate that were meant to keep him close to home. The moment he clocked out, however, his mobile was assaulted with urgent texts from the detective.

_"Coming or not? - SH"_

_"Losing daylight. - SH"_

_"Got your gun. -SH"_

The case and its various threads took them through all parts of London, including some of the seedier areas that John had only heard about. On the fourth day, the danger factor increased exponentially. John suffered a dislocated shoulder, and Sherlock received what was probably a hairline fracture to the snuffbox on his wright wrist. By the time the post-case euphoria had worn off, so had the adrenaline that kept the soreness at bay.

Ninety-six hours from his initial entreaty, the young man was vindicated. The original timepiece was recovered and returned to him none the worse for wear, and a newly discovered criminal mastermind was in police custody. A ring of thieves was neatly broken. A pawn shop saw some good publicity on the evening news, along with a certain Consulting Detective and the whole of Scotland Yard.

"Hard to believe he got all of this from a botched jewelry swap." Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment.

Back on Baker Street, the boys were aching and exhausted. Though neither voiced a complaint, John urged Sherlock to take the first shower. The investigation had kept them up for days. At least, it'd kept Sherlock up that long. John had kipped a few hours at a time, to keep his body functioning, but Sherlock just could not turn off his massive brain when he was deeply involved in a case. With this one going down as a 'ten,' John guessed that Sherlock probably had not slept at all since the night before he took it on.

With the hot water heater in use, John busied himself by tidying the flat and pulling out his pyjamas with the telly on for noise distraction. He knew that if he sat down, he'd be too tired and stiff to get back up again, and there was no way he was going to fall asleep sitting up with a recovering shoulder and two days' worth of grime covering his body.

Sherlock's shower turned off, and John trudged back upstairs to start his own water running.

"Night, Sherlock," he called behind him, wearily.

He emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later in clean clothes, with teeth brushed and socks on. He'd forgotten to turn off the telly, and it was fairly loud as the only sound in the building in the late hour. Surely Sherlock wasn't watching something.

Careful of his injured shoulder, John walked down the stairs and into the living room, stopping short at the sight before him. His flat-mate was dead asleep in his armchair, cradling his bruised wrist and snoring lightly. John's whole body sighed as he took him in._ Lazy git. Couldn't even trouble himself to climb into his own bed first_. Then he smiled, shaking his head. _Sherlock probably hadn't planned on falling asleep here. Was he waiting on me for something?_

He quietly took up the remote and turned off the telly, wondering if the sudden loss of sound would be enough to rouse his flat-mate. Sherlock only seemed to snore louder at this. _Wow, he's really out of it this time,_ John wondered, relieved. There was no way that man's sleeping patterns could be labeled as healthy. Still, he couldn't leave him in a stiff-backed chair to catch up on four days' worth of lost REM cycles.

John made his decision, reaching with his uninjured arm to gently shake Sherlock from the depths of his slumber. The detective ceased snoring, but his breaths remained deep and even. John slid his arm under Sherlock's, draping a long arm around his own neck and pulling the man to a half-standing position. Sherlock complied, like a child who's just been woken for a midnight bathroom trip, not fully asleep but nowhere near awake. One arm around the detective's waist, John shuffled into the master bedroom and deposited him as gently as he could onto the bed. Sherlock's robe was loosely tied over his favorite blue pyjamas, and John decided he would just have to sleep in all of it. In the lamplight, he noticed that the detective's feet were bare. The flat was drafty, so John walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled on the other half of the duvet with his good arm. He started at the foot end, covering the detective's bottom half and sort of tucking the duvet around his feet to keep the cold out. Sherlock's snoring had resumed in earnest now, and John walked back up to the top of the bed to pull the rest of the bedclothes over him.

Sherlock turned over then, snuggling backward into the blankets wrapped around him. He moved his head around a bit, searching for a comfortable position, and John slid the closest pillow underneath it. Sherlock sighed contentedly, reaching for the pillow and unconsciously adjusting it to his liking. He pulled something from the case on the underside of it, and John's mouth dropped open in shock. The item was soft and bunched in a little heap, but he recognized it as the jumper he had worn the day before the young man had brought his watch tale to their doorstep.

As John tried to make sense of what he was seeing, Sherlock pressed his face into the jumper and inhaled deeply.

"Mmmmmmm..." he muttered dreamily.

John was completely stunned.

"John." Sherlock sighed again, nuzzling into the knitted garment and settling it onto his neck and jaw, holding it close to the part of his face that was exposed to the cool night air.

John sat down slowly on the edge of Sherlock's bed, not wanting to wake or startle him.

"You great prat," he murmured, incredulous. "I knew it. I knew you were hiding something."

Sherlock shifted slightly, and John held his breath until he was sure he hadn't woken him. "Bit creepy, that," he continued. "Except it's really not. You and me," he told the sleeping man, "We're going to have a talk tomorrow, or whenever you wake up."

He sighed, mouth turned up in one corner, and gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze before slowly standing up again.

Sherlock's light snoring, and the stairs creaking under John's feet, were the only sounds in the flat as John made his way back to his own room. Sherlock inhaled a warm, familiar scent, and smiled softly in his sleep.


	18. There's been a fourth There's something

**There's been a fourth. There's something different this time... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

Sherlock lounged on the couch, a newspaper folded over his lap. When he heard familiar footsteps trudging up the stairs, he abruptly rearranged himself into a more dignified position, sitting up straight and crossing one leg over the other. He opened the paper and began actively perusing the headlines.

John found Sherlock's attempt at ignoring his presence to be total pretense, and completely adorable. But he kept it from his face. He hovered in the doorway, leaning against the wall, quietly regarding his flat-mate.

"John," Sherlock's tone mocked scolding, then grew higher as he posed one of his self-satisfied rhetorical questions.

"Fourth time this month?" He grimaced, feigning disappointment.

"Nope," John stated matter-of-factly. "That WAS three times, though."

Sherlock turned a page as loudly as he could.

"It was four -"

But John was shaking his head. "No, it was three. Four dates this month. Only three of them left early."

Sherlock still hadn't glanced away from his newspaper, and John though to himself: "_Oh, quit covering it up. You ARE curious!_" What he said was: "I actually ended tonight's date on my own."

"Really," Sherlock droned disinterestedly.

John looked down, clearing his throat.

"Uh, yeah."

Sherlock kept up the guise of faking an interest, but it really wasn't that fake. "Which one was it this time?"

"Doesn't matter," the doctor sighed, stepping into the room and stopping in front of the couch. "Budge over, you."

Sherlock only moved when John's left elbow was introduced, and even then he didn't leave enough room to keep their shoulders from pressing against each other.

John leaned forward slightly, partially breaking contact with him. "I was thinking about Carrie anyway." He stared at the coffee table. "Last one I got anywhere with. That was months ago." He knew Sherlock was listening, though the man gave nothing away.

"I ran into her last week at the pub, after my date left. Asked how she was, and eventually got around to why things hadn't worked out between us." John paused, adopting the breathing pattern he used when firing his weapon. "She said something… and it got me thinking. At first I was really put off, but then… The last few days I realized there was some truth to what she was saying, and I just… I just wanted to see how much."

Sherlock looked up at him now, and John caught the head tilt in his peripheral vision. "The thing is," he continued, "I felt, not really bad, about cancelling on that girl tonight. The thing is –" He inhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I was hoping to spend some time with you…"

Sherlock's grip on the newspaper tightened quietly. John hesitated for a split second, and then smoothly reached back to take the detective's hand.

Sherlock said nothing. Didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Just stared down at his right hand in John's left as John prattled on about... no, wait - he wanted to listen to this.

"She said it was the way I talked about you. My face, my voice, my – body language. And she saw us interacting together when she came by the flat that time. I know you don't remember it."

Sherlock would have made a noncommittal sound, but it got stuck in his throat. John's thumb brushed across his knuckles: back and forth, back and forth. He needed to get he rest of it out.

"She said –you 'brightened' around me. That you just... 'lit up.' That it was almost like we – like you and me – were…"

John looked down at their joined hands, and his heart almost stopped. "..and I really do. Love you, Sherlock." His thumb stilled. "But I think that also. I think that I may be... IN love. With you. Ahem." He felt the color rising in his face.

"Of course I know that you're …. Married to your work, and all that… and I never thought about… you know? Because I've always gone for girls. And everything. But. …." He ran a hand through his hair for the third or fourth time. "Sherlock. Would you maybe reconsider? If it were not just someone, not just anyone. But if it were me? Already I'm your best friend. And I would never hurt you. Not on purpose."

Sherlock's left arm stretched over his newspaper and stilled John's right hand as he wove it through his hair again. John froze. Turning his head toward the detective, he felt surreal, like he was moving in slow motion. Warm fingers tightened around his left hand. Time righted itself, and Sherlock's other hand moved down from the top of John's head to rest lightly on the side of his face. The doctor was was infinitely hopeful but momentarily dumbstruck when he met a pair of smiling, shining eyes. He'd forgotten to breathe.

"Yeah?" he gasped, barely.

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes roving all over John's face, taking in every aspect, every nuance of expression. He was so engrossed in what he found there that he almost forgot to answer the question.

"Yeah..." he breathed, then remembered himself. "-No, Yes!" he blurted out emphatically, and was instantly overcome with shyness. John noticed, and it shattered his remaining trepidation into a million little pieces. He gathered Sherlock into his arms and buried his face in the skin of his neck.

Not wanting to break their embrace, Sherlock awkwardly pulled the newspaper from between them, tossing it in the general direction of the coffee table.

"Is this okay?" John's voice spoke near to Sherlock's ear. In answer, a hand came up to cradle John's head; a kiss pressed tenderly into his hair. John pulled back and laid claim to those gentle lips, testing and tasting and taking things slowly.

Sherlock shuddered in his arms, and actually whimpered - happily - when John pulled him even closer. The next moment it was hard to distinguish who was sitting in whose lap.

"Yes," Sherlock repeated, murmuring into the doctor's mouth. "John. It was yes from the first."

* * *

**A/N - Quick shout-out to my AWESOME reviewers: ****A great big THANK YOU to A Speckled Brunette, MoonlitHedgehog38, Loli, Mayle, and Elaina Newport for the stellar affirmation! Keeps me singing!**


	19. I need an assistant

**I need an assistant... in bed.**

~ Sherlock Holmes

* * *

"Oh!"

"Aaah!"

"Oooh!"

"That's it!"

"Yeah, baby!"

"Keep going - turn - sideways! - yes!"

"Aaaah!"

"Yes!"

"Whoooooo!"

John hits 'pause,' pressing his fingers hard into his flesh as he runs a hand over his face. He turns to Sherlock, who is sitting right next to him. "Oh my god. I am SO hot right now!"

Sherlock's eyes are more than slightly unfocused. "Mute it then," he grinds out, barely keeping it cool. "You know this footage is primarily for 'research.'"

_More like foreplay,_ John smirks, and Sherlock hears his partner's thoughts.

"It will yield additional rewards if we give it the attention it requires."

"Mmmm," John squirms. "And then I can give YOU more proper attention, hey?"

Throughout this 'research' project, they are careful not to touch each other. The footage is a home video taken the previous evening, where the crime-fighting duo are trying a new sex position. John resumes control of the camera and zooms forward to a certain part of the video. They go backward for one of Sherlock's favorites, and then halfway through to the end they banter some more. John practically leaps from his seat on the couch. "O my god, why am I making that face? What is that?!"

Moments later, something captures both their attention in equal measure. "Ooh!" they exclaim simultaneously. A light bulb has turned on. Sherlock is breathing heavily. He picks up a throw pillow, turning it over in his hands. "I think if we..."

They look at each other, and John says: "Right. Feeling up to it?"

"Yeah!"

"Sure you're not still too sore?"

"Nope. Try and stop me."

In the bedroom, a book is open on the table. Sherlock picks it up and turns it sideways, memorizing the hand-drawn diagrams. John comes up behind him.

"The whole idea of this is just so sexy, I'm not sure I'm gonna last until the end."

"You'll have to, John. The end is the best part." Sherlock's voice cracks, his heart beating wildly in anticipation.

John raises his eyebrows. "I'm glad you're so flexible."

Sherlock grunts.

"Is it –" John starts. "Do you want me to-also? Because I guess I could limber up over a few weeks' time…"

"Not necessary. Unless you want to. " Sherlock is taking his trousers off, stripping to his undershirt.

"Let's go with –" John rummages in a drawer, holds up a tube of licorice-flavored sex lube.

Sherlock squints at it from across the room and nods. "O-kay. Camera ready?"

John scoots the table away from the wall and looks through the lens, adjusting the angle a bit before turning the device to 'off.' "Ready." He watches the detective, expectantly, as he climbs onto their bed, which is covered with every pillow their little flat contains.

"John." Sherlock looks him up and down, pointedly.

"Oh! Right –" John takes his clothes off. Sherlock's eyes are closed and he breathes slowly in and out as he pulls one foot behind his head. "I need an assistant," he grunts. For the second one. He is bracing himself on his elbows and hands.

John complies, climbing onto the bed, careful not to unbalance him. He stops for a moment, simply admiring the detective's form, when Sherlock makes an impatient noise. His left leg is still not secured, so John pulls on it lightly until he is able to hook Sherlock's left foot behind his right one.

"How's that, then?" John asks, marveling at the flexibility of the detective's long legs and hip sockets. "God, that's beautiful, Sherlock." John has a mental image of himself salivating over the detective in this state, like he's a prime cut of succulent beef, prepared especially for John to devour.

John slides another pillow under Sherlock, bracing his knees on either side of him so the detective can relax. He massages his quads, hips, and gluteus maximus, speaking soothingly until he can see Sherlock turning into a puddle of goo before his eyes. He leans forward and kisses him then, full-stop, ravaging his mouth; and starts stroking his attention-starved member in earnest.

Sherlock gets worked up really fast, and John dials it back sharply when his rock-hard dick starts leaking pre-cum. "Stay with me, love," John urges, and Sherlock tightens the muscles in his arms. John waits until he is steadily balanced on his own, and then hops off the bed to turn on the camera. When he turns back to Sherlock, he sees him lounging on the bed, propped on several pillows so that his body is resting at a convenient angle, feet behind his head and penis jutting out at full attention. John's dick is almost painfully hard, but as he climbs carefully back onto the bed, he takes a moment to linger over the detective's lean body, pulling another pillow underneath him and groaning in pleasure as their cocks slide against each other. Sherlock thrusts unconsciously, trying to control the friction.

"Steady there." Sherlock needs his hands for leverage, and his fingers are aching to reach for any part of John, but he can't actually do it. "That must be_ torturous_." John teases, tweaking one of Sherlock's hardening nipples. Sherlock whines, a high-pitched sound.

"Hurry up, John! Get inside me. Please!" he begs, in his most commanding voice. John returns to massaging Sherlock's buttocks and kisses a trail down his sensitive dick. Sherlock groooooooans, then gasps when he feels John working to stretch his opening. His eyes widen, and Johns cuts him off with a ferocious kiss. It's a pretty good distraction, but Sherlock can't withhold a sharp intake of breath when his penis grazes the love trail going down from John's navel.

_Finally!_, Sherlock rejoices, John reaches around the detective's back, adjusting the pillows there, and signaling a change in position. Sherlock's hands leave the mattress one at a time, gripping John's ankles, and John in turn takes each of those hands in his own, pulling them around his own back as he scoots himself into exactly the right staging for penetration. " –this okay?" he asks. Sherlock whimpers.

"Yes, yes! Oh God - PLEASE!" His dark head is thrown back, not very far because of his feet. His breathing is ragged. John pushes in, slowly, and both are choking on gasps at the start of familiar sensations. Sherlock lifts his head and opens his eyes to lock on John's gaze.

"Ok. Ok. Let's go really slow at first." John suggests. His partner moans and closes his eyes again, focusing on the_ feel_ of everything.

"Sherlock. I've got you."

John kisses his partner's thighs, his belly, his chest - any part of him that his lips can easily reach - and pushes in, further, further. The position affords a new kind of closeness. John is fully sheathed, his pubic bone nearly swallowed by two glorious arse cheeks, and Sherlock's eyes fly open in shock as John wriggles to get even closer. "Breathe! Sherlock," he urges, knowing how his lover can forget about lung function when presented with this manner of distraction.

With a pair of pillows beneath him, and a great pile of them acting as a buffer between his head-on-his-feet and the headboard, Sherlock moans. Trembles. He cries out in basic, animalistic relief when John thrusts into him. Faster. Harder.

Soon John is slamming into him, the detective's arse surrounding his generous cock right up to the hilt. Absolutely zero barriers. The slap of their bodies joining over and over, the desperate "Oof'"'s and huffing sounds, are in heavy competition with the squeaking of the joints on the bedframe and the headboard hammering into the wall.

Sherlock screams when he reaches his peak, white noise exploding all around him. John is equally ecstatic. When the haze clears, they realize this is one manoeuver they've successfully perfected. And it only took one dress rehearsal, a 'research' session, and a quarter of an hour's actual practice to achieve it. Tomorrow they will check the video quality, and choose another position from the book.

* * *

**A/N:**

** Well. **

**So. I, um. **

**Yeah.**

****Anyone? Thoughts?** Thanks!**

******On a side note, I enjoy experimenting with different writing styles. Some of these just want to be written in specific ways. Hope that's not throwing anyone off (as in, confusing you). This one was pretty action-packed (dirty pun there unintended, but not regretfully accomplished), so it wanted a more forward-moving style. Hope it worked for you! **

******Also, I've never seen one of those 'books' that John and Sherlock were using, but I know there are definitely some out there. So I reeeeeally had to use my imagination with this one. Logistically, some things were pretty unrealistic, but with the right pairing, I think it could work. Anyone else feel kind of dirty right now? In a bad-girl/guy kind of way? ;)**


	20. Sherlock The mess you've made!

**Sherlock…The mess you've made! ...in bed.**

~Mrs. Hudson

* * *

Sherlock was greeted with that exclamation as he came out of his bedroom. Barefoot and clad in nothing but his robe, he was tying the belt around his waist, and shrugging one-sidedly to keep a second, folded robe from slipping off his shoulder.

His landlady was fussing about, reaching instinctively for one or two objects and then refraining from actually touching them. Her hands fluttered comically, as if they were too overwhelmed to know where to start.

Sherlock grinned, ducking his head to hide it from her. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Not my housekeeper. Remember?"

"Of course, dear! But you really should practice better sanitary...-Oh!"

Her hand flew to her mouth as John popped up like a prairie dog from behind the couch, a pillow in each hand covering his exposed private areas. "Is something burning?" he put it urgently to the room. Sherlock tossed him the second robe and he caught it in one hand, relinquishing a pillow as he did so. Mrs. Hudson turned away abruptly, and they all stood rooted to their respective spots, looking around for the source of the smell. It was noticeable: acrid, and faintly acidic. Not like regular smoke; but then, there wasn't any actual smoke to be seen.

John squinted hard at all the vents and sockets; Mrs. Hudson glanced frantically up, down, and sideways; while Sherlock turned deliberately toward the kitchen table, and stoically stalked over to the chemistry set he had abandoned several hours ago.

As it happened, John's pants had landed (unnoticed) on an Erlynmeyer flask which was anchored in a heavy setting. They had lain there, draped haphazardly, over the course of the boys' late afternoon/ early evening shenanigans. Consequently, a hole had been burned into their seat in a very suggestive place - well, that wasn't planned.

Sherlock lifted the stretchy red fabric from his expensive chemistry set with a pair of equally expensive tongs, and whipped around toward the kitchen, intent on dropping them into the sink.

"Oh! dear..." Mrs. Hudson's voice warbled at the room behind him.

Sherlock bit his lip, and looked around to survey the rest of the 'damage' to the flat.

John was already doing this, reliving their past few hours in successive flashes, as various objects in the main living area triggered memories from their wild sex-capades. Clothes flying off at warp-speed, furniture tumbling out of their way, and not a thought to where these little items would end up.

John's blue jumper lay in a heap by the door, with Sherlock's belt just a few feet away. A single sock hung in a particularly slovenly fashion over the skull on the mantelpiece, and a shoe had landed upside-down in the fireplace. Another, slightly smaller shoe, was wedged in the middle of a bookshelf, and the coffee table was turned on its side. Sherlock's pressed white button-down had been flung over a nearby lampshade, where it balanced precariously as the shade tilted dangerously under the weight of the fabric.

Mrs. Hudson saw the same things, but had only her imagination to go on.

Sherlock's voice shocked them out of their collective stupor.

"Yes. Someone really should straighten things up a bit."

John had been eyeing a pile of damp flannels that were bunched in a bin by the couch. He turned to level an authoritative charge at his fellow mess-maker, but Sherlock's brilliant mind was suddenly preoccupied by some other project. He was halfway back to his bedroom before John could form the words. The door shut with an air of finality, and Mrs. Hudson blinked at the spot where he had stood.

John spoke up then. "I've got it, thanks."

Startled, but relieved, Mrs. Hudson made to exit down the stairs. A moment later, John called after: "Couple of biscuits, if you've got 'em, and some tea?"


	21. Not in a police car Be right behind

**Not in a police car. Be right behind... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed, and he ran through a quick internal monologue on how he COULD have ended this conversation with Lestrade:

_"I'll_ _take a cab, thank you. With John. We'll be playing 'hide the hot dog' on the way to the crime scene. If everything goes as planned -" _

_He scoffs, "- of __course it will (how can it not!) - __John will assist me in achieving a perfectly blank mental state, primed and ready to offer a fresh and accurate, GENIUS look at your case."_

Of course he'd never say the stuff about the hot dogs out loud, even if the only one present was himself. Really, it was more of a dialogue than a monologue, but he was the only one carrying the conversation. And it was, after all, in his head.

* * *

**A/N: I am jonesin' for some feedback this week! Let me know if you have any notes for me. :)**

**Thanks!**


	22. Something cold will do

**Something cold will do... in bed.**

~Sherlock Holmes

* * *

It was early autumn, and London was in the middle of a record heat wave.

The boys were on the outskirts of town, racing toward the denouement of a case they'd been pulled into by The Yard, when the a/c at 221B went on the fritz. Two days and a lengthy foot chase later, the case was all but closed. When John and Sherlock stumbled into their comfortable flat, the air was absolutely stifling.

They'd been away from home, wearing the same clothes for over three days, and literally running around out of doors for much of that time. Consequently, the temperature inside their flat didn't register with either one of them until after their respective showers.

By then, it was long past midnight. John was dead knackered, but he was too hot to sleep. He tried stripping down to his birthday suit and lying down stark naked, but his sheets were soon soaking in sweat, and that left him tired _and_ pissed. He began to think quite seriously of volunteering some hours at the surgery next day, just to get into some air conditioning. But he knew he wouldn't do anyone any good on zero sleep, especially after the adventure he'd just come off of.

With a long-suffering sigh, he pulled on some clean pants and picked up the towel he'd used after his shower, stepping lightly on the stairs in case Sherlock had already found a way to doze off. As he stepped into the dim light of the kitchen, he saw he needn't have been so considerate. There was Sherlock, clad in naught but a pair of short pants, his hand on the refrigerator door.

The two chuckled darkly, not at one another but at the absurd timing and inconvenience of their situation. John spoke tiredly into the too-warm air. "We could call a cab. Go to a hotel."

"Nonsense." Sherlock stood by the open fridge, cool air creeping toward him slowly. "By the time we arrive, check in, wind down, we'll have a couple of hours before daylight and then we're off to Scotland Yard."

John walked to the window, releasing the catch and lifting the lower pane. "I'll leave a note for Mrs. Hudson before we go to see Lestrade. She can have someone over to look at the unit" He held his hand out in the night air, palm down. "If the compressor's busted, it's going to take a few days to sort out; and we will definitely be staying in a hotel until then."

John stepped back into the main living area. "It is a few degrees cooler outside, but there's absolutely no breeze. Maybe if we leave the window open overnight, the air will circulate - keep us from incubating any further in here..."

Sherlock blew out a lengthy sigh and lowered himself onto the couch, a glass of ice water in his hand. John stared at the glass for a bit longer than was absolutely necessary, and the detective pointedly looked over at the kitchen counter, where a second icy beverage was waiting.

"Ta!" the doctor said brightly, practically sprinting toward the counter.

"Don't mention it."

John settled into his chair and leaned his head back, condensation from the rapidly warming glass running between his knees and down his legs.

"This is ridiculous!" Sherlock whined.

"We need to sleep," John agreed.

They sat in frustrated silence for a moment, drinking their water. Sherlock was contemplating an escape into his mind palace when John shot up suddenly; energy of purpose breaking through the fog of exhaustion that had settled over him.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock complained as John set his empty glass on the kitchen table. It slid around for a moment on the water that had accumulated underneath it, wobbling faster and faster until it was completely and abruptly still.

Sherlock was mesmerized by the glass, and didn't notice that John had disappeared from the room until he returned a few minutes later, a good deal sweatier but with a box fan in tow. "Got a camping bag?" the doctor suggested. "I've just got the one, in my room. We can take them outside and -"

"Where?"

"On the roof." John deposited the fan on the rug in front of the coffee table. Sherlock stared after him for a second, watching him rummage through the kitchen cabinets until he pulled out a large, wide bowl.

"Sherlock!" John commanded in full Captain's voice. Sherlock hopped-to, and was in and out of his room in under a minute, when he heard John's bedroom door open again. He tossed his camping bag onto the seat he'd vacated on the couch, and stood looking up toward John's room, waiting for him to come back out. "Get the fan -" the ex-soldier called down. Sherlock grabbed it by the handle, but John waved at him to set it back down.

"Never mind, I'll take that. I've got an extension cord. Fill that bowl with ice, and follow me up to the roof."

Surprisingly, Sherlock did as he was told; tracing John's ghosted footprints up and out of the flat, he emerged into the night air. It was still warm, but noticeably less so than inside of 221B. John plugged the extension cord into an outlet near the railing. Sherlock dropped his camping bag next to John's, and watched as his friend positioned the box fan a few feet away from them.

"Put the bowl down in front of the fan," John instructed.

Sherlock complied, and turned around to see John unrolling their camp bags. He observed him going through the motions on autopilot, and realized that the man must've done this hundreds of times on tour. His chest tightened painfully.

_That was weird._ He shook himself out of it and John's shoulders fell.

"What is it?" Sherlock's traitorous voice cracked.

"Hmm? I forgot about pillows."

"Oh!" Sherlock sounded almost glad. He cleared his throat. "I mean, it's fine. Um, I'll get them."

""Wel -Sure? Thanks," John scrubbed a hand over his face. He tilted the fan a bit to ensure optimum air flow over the bowl of ice, and adjusted their sleeping bags so they would be in the best position to receive the artificial breeze.

Sherlock returned shortly, with two pillows under one arm and a king-sized sheet draped around his shoulders. _Good thinking_, John thought. They'd sleep much better under the weight of that sheet. Nothing wrong with creature comforts. He wasn't in Afghanistan, after all. And Sherlock was far from being homeless here. John's heart did something when he thought of Sherlock sleeping on the cold hard ground with nothing but a bit of newspaper to crawl under.

He took the pillow the detective held out to him wordlessly, tossing it at the head of his camp bag. He took Sherlock's as well, and did the same with it.

"Sherlock." The detective snapped out of his own head again. John grabbed one end of the sheet Sherlock was holding, and together they pulled it down over the rushing air, tucking it under the ends of their camp bags.

"G'night," John whispered, as he slid under the light covering and found his pillow. The open air and steady rumbling of the oscillating fan combined perfectly to encourage sound slumbering. Sherlock turned onto his usual sleeping side, which happened to be facing the ex-soldier. He closed his eyes and commenced to shutting off his brain. John heard him hum softly, unaware that he was doing it. He reached out and took the detective's hand. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so.

Sherlock froze. Holding his breath, he leaned his head back slowly so he could observe his friend through the smallest crack of an eyelid. John's own eyes were heavy, but focused on the detective. Sherlock exhaled, and squeezed John's hand: once - slowly - relaxing into the touch.

Just a simple connection across the space they were sharing. Sherlock repositioned his fingers for a better grip on John's. The doctor smiled contentedly and closed his eyes. Neither let go for the remainder of the night, and they slept until the sun rose over 221B.

* * *

**A/N - So that was total cheese at the end, no? LOL.**

** Aaaaaanyways... ****THANK YOU!s go out to onarwhal, Sheepdog20 and WingedWhale for your recent reviews, ****and to all my new followers/favoriters of this collection. I also got my first fan request today, for something to include in a future installment. So stay tuned! When I incorporate your suggestion, I will give you full credit :)**

**Cheers!**


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